Legendary
by Lono
Summary: Is that the only point to all this misery?
1. Chapter 1

_Smiling through denial, my specialty. I thought that was a good thing for a while. You gave me all your secrets. Were you testing me? How could I do anything but smile?_

 _Reenact your legendary tragedy and do to me what has been done to you. Is that the only point to all this misery? Is there any reason I should cry?_

 _Heal. It takes time. And you gave me all you had. I know in time I will believe that I loved you. Did you love me? Did you love me?_

Lou Barlow, "Legendary" _, EMOH_

* * *

The line goes dead.

Molly continues to clutch her mobile in both hands as a greasy pressure keeps her from breathing. Hot tears well and slide down her cheeks. She cannot bother to swipe them away, not anymore.

Pulling a shuddering gasp, working the air past her diaphragm, she shakes her head furiously. She'll drink her tea. She'll sit down in her lounge and [clutching the teacup in both hands] turn on the telly. There must be something on to distract at least a few of the shattered pieces of her.

She only realizes she hasn't moved and a half hour has passed since she spoke to Sherlock when she reaches for the cup, brings it to her mouth, and cold tea touches her lips. Still, she swallows, even though she only tastes the bitter tannins that dry on her tongue. She even gulps down the rest and is surprised that the orange citrus doesn't sting, because she could swear she's a series of raw papercuts right now. One for each minute she's spent with Sherlock Holmes. One for each time she's foolishly let a flicker of hope [that he loves her, that his affection for her keeps, that she's finally found the strength she needs to let go] spark. One for each time he's made her sad, angry, happy, and so on. But the tangy sweetness only causes a slight curl of her tongue and no pain.

Robotically, Molly moves about her kitchen, cleaning up the evidence of the minutes before Sherlock broke her heart. Again. Raw and alone, naturally.

Shuffling like an old woman with tired bones, she moves into her lounge and sits heavily on the sofa, promising that she'll only allow one more hour of self-pity. She only realizes she's brought her empty cup with her when she blindly lifts it to her mouth. Frowning, she lowers it and stares at the small puddle of tealeaves on the bottom of the cup.

 _"Say it. Say it like you mean it."_

Though she wishes she could be proud of her small show of defiance—her determination to put Sherlock as off balance as he'd made her—it's a Pyrrhic victory. Maybe for that moment she could pretend she isn't as huge an idiot as she is. Boy, was that ever short-lived. Now, what's there left to do?

 _He said it twice,_ a traitorous voice whispers. It is the same voice that suggested she dress up for Christmas drinks, urged her to commit fraud, convinced her that what she was doing wasn't fair to Tom, and bit at her to help him with his drug relapses and withdrawals even as he pushed her away. And where has allowing her eager, lonely heart to make decisions got her? Trying not to cry anymore on her settee and while she is swamped with a morass of pain that goes beyond embarrassment.

Because, sure, Sherlock told her he loves her. He even said it twice and he begged her to say it back to him. He mostly likely had a good reason to require it of her. She trusts him that far, even if it took a hint of desperate cajoling on his part to bring her round to that. But that only makes it more painful. Because it only reinforces to her that he sees her as a friend for the most part, but a means to an end when necessary.

It can't sustain itself.

"He doesn't love me," she whispers to her empty sitting room. Her voice echoes back from the hallway leading to her bedroom.

"He doesn't love me," she says again, louder.

And then she waits for that voice to contradict her. But it can't, so she sits there and swirls the dregs of her tea.

* * *

" _Say it. Say it like you mean it._ "

Later, Sherlock will think back on her words and wonder if she knew. She's always seen right through him. Those dark, watchful eyes know him when he only _wishes_ he could say the same for her.

* * *

The town car rattles away from the skeleton of the ancestral family home, and Sherlock's mind races with the remains of today. Or is it yesterday? His eyes are too bleary with exhaustion to decipher the digital clock's readout that glows weakly onto a nameless driver's face. He knows it's late, but he can't track anything because nothing feels _real_ right now.

Eurus is safely contained and even his guilt at her incarceration can't quell the bone-deep relief that everyone is safe again. Now, it's a matter of picking up the pieces.

Parsing the aftermath of a trauma into a mental checklist may be his favorite coping mechanism. He's already urged Mycroft to tell their parents and he imagines that reckoning will happen in the next twenty-four hours.

Somehow, he convinced Greg and Mycroft that he should be the one to contact Victor Trevors' family. Somehow, they agreed. All he does know is that, though he does not know what the fallout will be, he cannot pass it off to someone else. He needs to give a final answer to their grief for a little boy who went to play with the Holmes children one day and never came back home.

The bodies of the Garrideb men will likely be retrieved, so long as the cutting waves around Sherrinford haven't swept them away. They—yes, even the murderer—are another tick in his ledger of culpability, but he doesn't have it in him to think about yet another family's loss right now.

And then there's Molly.

Molly.

Somehow, though his knuckles are raw from his rage and helplessness when confronted with "her" coffin, he still does not know what to do. What can he do for her? How can he fix it, when every time he thinks back to their conversation—and how much hurt and, yes, heartbreak can be effected in the span of two minutes—he thinks of the hitch in her voice as she _begged_ him not to make her say the words. Even now, pain in his chest revisits as he remembers Molly's soft voice as she said she didn't want to be made fun of, as if he could even fathom doing such a thing now.

How could Eurus know what devastation she'd wreak with "I love you"? How had she known that Molly wouldn't allow herself to be made a heartbroken pawn without turning the tables on him? How had Eurus known that he'd never said those words to anyone except his family and the Watsons prior to that moment?

How had she known that Sherlock would realize….

He shakes his head. He's always been a master at partitioning painful emotions, but it's not working this time and this one is an open wound. Because he may have had a revelation, but he also understands Eurus' purpose for the exercise. He lost it even as he grasped it.

His thoughts had momentarily stopped racing when Molly said, "Because you know it's true," and he had fallen back on some old self-serving habits when he demanded she say the words anyway. Not because he hadn't grasped how hard they could be to get out (though, admittedly, he hadn't).

No, he said, "If it's true, say it anyway," because, unbidden, _wanted_ her to tell him she loved him. Not only to save her life, but because he wanted her love. Something he'd never thought could be a possession before, and the moment he realized its reality, he'd _had_ to have it.

Molly's brittle laugh had sliced at him. "You bastard."

Of course she'd not noticed his stupefied pause. Of course she'd not been able to see the way his face had gone slack with dawning realization.

He is a bastard. He's always known he is, but to have _her_ say it…. nausea rollicks in his stomach as pressure builds behind his eyes. He wants to weep but he doesn't deserve to.

The car comes to a stop and he is pulled from his aching reverie. Blinking, he studies the door to Molly's flat through the darkness.

When Mycroft had directed them to two town cars, John had turned to Sherlock and said, "You're not going to kip on the daybed in Rosie's room?"

Sherlock'd had to shake himself from his thoughts to turn to his friend. He almost mustered up the energy to quip, _"And get roped into nighttime feeding and nappy duty? Fool me once."_

But he hadn't a chance to respond before John answered his own question, as if _finally_ realizing something obvious. "Never mind." His mouth had twitched into a near smile and he'd clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "She knows by now that something was going on. She'll let you explain."

Sherlock had nodded and rasped a goodnight. Climbing into the dark car, he'd lost himself to thinking and grieving. Now, in a blink, the hour-long car ride is over and he must face Molly and hope that he can salvage _something._

He doesn't use his key. It's a boundary he is certain he is not meant to cross right now. So he raps on the door and waits. He almost hopes she doesn't answer, isn't sure he doesn't deserve a night out on her stoop. But of course, as he's toying with the idea of walking around the square to gather his thoughts, the deadbolt is thrown back and Molly Hooper opens the door.

Sherlock can't help it. He stares at her. For god's sake, he can't stop. Because her hair is in a messy plait, her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, her face is blotchy. And she is beautiful. And he may only have this moment to allow himself to realize it. To realize she's _his_ Molly.

All too soon, she grows uncomfortable under his gaze. Her shoulders twitch and she turns her face away. But not to close him out, to his surprise. Stepping back, she jerks her head to urge him in. She keeps her gaze steady once he's in the flat and has pushed the door shut behind him, taking care to lock it. She continues to watch him while he drapes his coat over a wingback chair.

In a sleep-and-tear-roughened voice, she murmurs, "Your bandages look alright, but do you need anything?"

He follows her gaze to the multiple plasters the paramedics had put across his split knuckles. "No. Thank you."

Nodding, she turns around. He only realizes he's meant to follow her when she begins perfunctorily turning out the lights she'd used to light her way to the door, shuffling her way back down the hall. He stands there, watching her move away from him, still at a loss.

"I got rid of your old toothbrush," she calls behind her. "It was disgusting. The green and white one in the holder is yours."

He hurries to catch up to her. Halfway down the hall, he grabs her hand, stopping her progress.

"Molly," he begins, but she cuts him off with a sharp shake of her head.

By now, the only light remaining is the dim glow from her bedside table lamp, its weak light barely reaching them outside of the room. She is backlit, so he can only make out those large, brown eyes by their slight glittering.

"Please," is all she says.

Helpless to do anything but what she wishes, he nods, and she pulls her arm free, walking away from him.

He is still unsure if he's meant to sleep with her. They've done so plenty in the past, but now… now, he's not sure he isn't meant to go curl up on her sofa. When he finally reaches her room, though, she's already lying down on the far side of her bed, as she always does when he spends the night.

Again, he wrestles down an urge to weep.

He moves quietly into the bathroom, closing the door so she can fall back asleep. It's startling, that he doesn't look much different than he did when he shaved and dressed some twenty hours ago. Yes, there's some stubble and he has bags under his eyes, but he isn't fundamentally changed. At least, not outwardly.

Shaking his head, he uses the toilet and brushes his teeth. He stares at the shower for a long moment, weariness making each molecule of him heavier, but decides he can't soil Molly bedsheets with a day of blood, sweat, splinters, dirt, and water. Still, he is amazed he doesn't fall asleep when he finally makes it under the hot spray. He has to brace his hands on the cold tiles, let the water sluice over him for a full minute before he sets to washing.

When he exits the steamy bathroom to a blackened bedroom, he is certain Molly is asleep. He tiptoes over to the bedside table with a drawer full of his clothes and carefully pulls out a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt. Dropping the towel that he'd wrapped around his waist, he quickly pulls the night clothes on, not allowing himself the mawkish urge to smell Molly's detergent on the worn, soft cotton of the shirt.

He doesn't allow himself the bone-weary desire to collapse onto the bed. Instead, he mindfully refolds his towel and replaces it in the bathroom and, returning to the bed, lowers himself gently on the mattress and carefully pulls the duvet up around him.

And then he lies there for who-knows-how-long, staring at the silhouette of the woman there with him in the dark, poetically feeling like the foot of space between them is unspannable.

It's only after a long while that he realizes she's not asleep. Her breathing isn't deep and even. No, she's as very much awake as he, and not even pretending otherwise.

Pursing his lips, he carefully, _carefully_ shuffles across the bed until his chest is flush to her back. She doesn't tense in surprise, so she's expecting it. She makes no argument when he slithers an arm over her, tracing up the delicate bones of her wrist until he can find where she clutches the bedcovers. He pries her fingers loose and replaces that corner of duvet with his hand.

Her fingers tighten on his, and he lets himself relax, burying his cold nose into the thickness of her plait. Allowing the full weight of his arm to settle on her, he closes his eyes and thinks he might be able to fall asleep now.

It lasts only a moment, because she draws in a shaky breath and whispers into their darkness, "I'm giving my notice at Barts tomorrow."

He goes still. A dull thudding takes up residence in his brain and chest.

"I—" she croaks, clears her throat, and tries again, a quaver in her low voice only betraying a hint of tears. "I am going away. Not because of today," she hurries to clarify, though he doesn't have the wherewithal to respond, "Or not _just_ because of today. But I've been thinking it for some time. I need to do this."

He can't breathe, or if he is breathing, he can't feel his blood moving with any new oxygen. Everything has gone still, waiting for Molly's absence.

"I'm going to let my flat and maybe take up one of my classmates' offers of a post in York or Edinburgh." She shudders against him. But, somehow, he knows he isn't supposed to argue. She even relaxes slightly when, after a moment, he remains quiet.

He doesn't let himself beg like he wants to. He doesn't say, "No. Please, don't leave. Don't leave me." Because he won't torture her like that. It is cliché and tired, but he has well learned the lesson that Molly will only be happy away from him.

Still, even as he jerkily nods his understanding, his arms tighten around her.

He squeezes his eyes shut, presses his forehead to her back, and tries to think around something he suspects is heartbreak.

* * *

 **AN:** To be continued. OR IS IT? Nah, I'm just kidding. OR AM I?!

(Second and final chapter will be up tomorrow.)

Lou Barlow's "Legendary" has been from the start and forever will be my Molly Hooper Song of Choice. I can't even begin to describe its beauty and heartbreak, and it's all the more poignant after yesterday. I guess I could apologize for quoting almost the entire song at the beginning, but folks, if I ever felt obnoxious enough to write a song fic, it'd be around that one.

For the Ka(i)t(e)li/yns of my acquaintance.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** Turns out I had a lot to say and not enough time to say it. I wish someone had bothered to tell me that graduate school and a full time job would be hard work. Oh wait, they did.

Thank you to everyone for the overwhelmingly kind encouragement! I hope you aren't frightened off by the length of this conclusion.

* * *

 _I know you've given all that you can give to me. I know there'll come a day I understand._

 _'_ _Til then, I'll be trying to solve your mystery, and wonder why I couldn't make you stay._

\- Lou Barlow, "Legendary", _EMOH_

* * *

 _April, 2016_

* * *

No one can argue that Sherlock doesn't have plenty to distract him. In fact, he fancies, in the 134-and-a-half days since she left, he's hardly spared a thought for Molly Hooper. Hardly at all.

Sure, the first month had come with its difficulties. Bounding into the morgue or lab, he'd drawn up short more than once when greeted not by Molly's happy smile, but by the bewildered glances of her two replacements (of course it would take two people fill her role; not to mention they hardly ever had to deal with Sherlock, so he calculated they were each only dealing with a third of Dr. Hooper's workload). It had taken some getting used to.

Eventually, he'd adjusted to the lab-coated placeholders. Not so much that he resumed his regular schedule at Barts, but enough that a necessary trip to the place wouldn't send him into a swotty tirade about their shortcomings.

Annoyingly, John had used Sherlock's treatment of The Replacements as evidence that he was not coping with Molly's departure. He wouldn't shut up about it.

"Really, Sherlock, you're worrying me. I didn't even know you _knew_ how to be polite _._ "

It was true. Sherlock never made snarky comments about the new recruits or dressed them down when they made mistakes.

He hadn't bothered to explain to his oft-dense friend, that _of course_ he was being polite. He had decided he would do absolutely nothing to make Molly think he was punishing her or The Replacements for her decision to leave.

She did not deserve that.

But, oh, he _hated_ those dolts. He wasn't sure what their names were, being too discombobulated to listen when they introduced themselves the first time he walked into a Molly-less Barts and being too Sherlock to ask them to repeat their monikers later. Still, he was carefully cordial to them. He'd even taken to addressing them as "Hello" and "Excuse Me", so they wouldn't know just how little he noticed them.

He was certain Molly called regularly to check in. Apparently, she'd promised to train The Replacements remotely. He wasn't sure of how it worked, but he'd walked into the lab a few times, only for Excuse Me to see him and quickly mutter into the phone receiver that she and the caller would need to finish their discussion later. Sherlock's ears would perk up, listening for hints of Molly's voice from across the room, but he was never certain his brain wasn't filling in illusory detail.

Once, he was _certain_ he'd seen a sticky note with her handwriting asking Hello to make sure Sherlock got a fresh bag of renal tissue so he wouldn't try to harvest any of his own. Hello had followed his gaze and snatched up the note before he could be certain, though.

And so, Sherlock had grown, if not accustomed, then familiar enough to navigate a life without Molly Hooper in it. He'd gone about his work. He hadn't pined. He hadn't relapsed because of his loss.

And _really_ , he doesn't think of her all that much these days.

* * *

 _November, 2015_

* * *

He'd only seen her once in the two weeks since that painful, awful night when Eurus had made her indelible mark. When Molly had told him she was leaving. Not wanting to make it any harder for her, he'd cleared himself away to John's house. He'd decided that a six-month-old baby wouldn't be the worst company for the time being, even if the charge for room and board _was_ nighttime nappy and bottle duty.

Molly and he had run into each other at Barts a few days later. He was there to—well, he couldn't actually remember why he'd decided to visit the hospital, but there was always some specimen to examine. He'd nearly barreled into her, striding down the hall when she walked out of the employee locker room, carrying a large box that obstructed her view. His hands had darted to her shoulders to steady her. He was too busy staring into the box, and the entire contents of her locker—extra shoes, scrubs, Jaffa cakes, a hairbrush, a couple of paperback novels—to notice that he'd not removed his hands from her until she'd spoken.

"Hi," she'd said, not quite managing a smile.

Abruptly, Sherlock had taken a step back, letting go of her. "You're done here?"

"Mostly." She wouldn't meet his eyes. "How are you, Sherlock?"

He'd nodded, not sure how to answer her question. Instead he'd said, "May I carry that for you?"

She shifted the box, but not towards him. "It's really not heavy, but thank you. Are you headed for the lab? There's a class in there right now, but I—"

"That's okay," he'd hurried to cut her off. This was agony, and he just wanted to grant them both a reprieve. "It wasn't urgent."

"Okay."

They stood there in silence. Finally, she broke it once more, studying her box's contents. "I decided to be a responsible landlord and change the locks for my new tenants. You can throw away the old key, if you want."

For some reason, no matter how practical it was, that hurt more than the sight of her carrying her belongings away from the place they'd met, more than her awkwardness around him, and as much as her whispering, "I'm going away," in the first place.

She'd shut him out, no matter how impersonal her decision had been.

He couldn't speak, so he had jerked his head in what he hoped looked like an affirmative.

Finally, after shifting from foot to foot a few times, Molly had cleared her throat. "I have a taxi waiting. I should go. I'll be sure to come say goodbye to you, John, and Rosie."

It was only when she'd made it a safe distance away that he'd called out to her. "Molly?"

She had turned around, expectant.

He'd swallowed around an obstruction in his throat. "Where did you decide to go?"

"Edinburgh," she supplied.

"Oh."

Offering a weak smile, she'd shrugged. "I thought I'd see if the Scottish corpses are as hospitable as their living counterparts."

To make things easier for her, he'd scoffed and rolled his eyes. Her lips curving into a more-discernable smile stabbed at him, but he didn't dare show her that. He merely let his mouth twitch upwards.

Watching her carefully, he'd admitted, "You'll be brilliant."

She sucked in a sharp breath, blinked several times before thanking him shakily. And then she'd turned and walked away from him.

He still has her key on his keyring.

* * *

 _May, 2016_

* * *

After months of hauling out bricks and rubble, laying new hardwood, painting, tiling, and wallpapering, the contractors have nearly finished with the repairs on the flat. Sherlock almost feels sorry, because he and Rosie Watson have been excellent roommates.

He likes to talk to someone who doesn't ask inane questions. She likes to yell (not cry, not scream… _yell_ ) at him from her cot if he's not paying due attention to her. Truly, it's refreshing to have someone get straight to the point of what they want, rather than skirting around social niceties or waving condescending hands in his face.

The one thing he won't miss are the nappies. The baby has yet to find food she doesn't like, much to his horrified chagrin. But despite the grimmer aspects of it all, he'll miss her.

That said, he is looking forward to his own flat. Looking forward to being among his belongings and the blessed distraction they each offer. Looking forward to not thinking so damn much.

He's never been a heavy sleeper, of course, but caring for a baby so her father can rest isn't the same as raucuous fencing practice or catching up on trashy talk shows. He had learned the hard way that shouting at the telly at midnight makes for a crabby baby and a crabby best friend. In answer, Sherlock takes to reading quietly on the daybed in the baby's room, going to her when she wakes. It's gotten less frequent as the months have passed, as Rosie moves closer and closer to sleeping through the night. But not entirely. And so, during those night hours, when Rosie wants a bottle or a nappy change or simply to be held, he thinks.

Sometimes… sometimes, Rosie makes him wonder what sort of father he would be.

He's never _wanted_ children, though he does like them well enough (to the surprise of _everyone_ , he can't help but think sniffily). He's doesn't think that lack of paternal desire for offspring has changed, necessarily.

There are moments, though, like tonight. Moments where it is just Sherlock and his goddaughter. The quiet dark of the house surrounds them while he rocks and feeds her, studying the way the dim lamp behind him and shadows make her eyelashes look impossibly long.

There are moments like tonight, when he can't help but wonder.

Rosie's eyes have closed and her draws at the bottle's teat are slowing, though every time he tries to pull it away, she begins drinking with gusto again. Sheer stubbornness. Very much like Mary, he thinks with a small smile at the baby.

He never discussed things like children and motherhood with Molly. There were boundaries even he recognized. But now that he doesn't have her, he wonders. Molly loves Rosie, but he's noticed that children are not a second-nature to her. She always looks hesitant when she holds one, like she might break or drop it, despite her gentle, strong arms.

He frowns thoughtfully, running a finger along a sleeping Rosie's soft cheek to break her hold on the teat and setting the empty bottle on the small table next to him. He doesn't rise to put the baby back into her cot. Instead, he continues to rock her, humming a mindless tune he remembers his mother singing to him. Something about a captain in the horse marines who teaches ladies how to dance.

Did Molly ever wonder what their babies might look like? Was she given to flights of fancy, thinking about making a family with him? Or was she truly content to love him as he was?

That was the crux of it. That was what always made it easy for him to trivialize her feelings for him. He couldn't see how she'd want everything he could and could not offer.

Now, holding the sure weight of John and Mary's baby in his arms, he can't help but wonder if he even _knows_ what he could offer Molly Hooper.

* * *

 _November, 2015_

* * *

The day Molly left London, she came by 221B to say goodbye. Sherlock had only arrived a short while earlier to pick up some files that had miraculously survived the explosion. She had come to a stop in the doorway, her sad eyes taking scorched hull of the flat.

Long before a conversation that couldn't be unsaid, he'd learned the exact tread of her gait, the smell of her detergent, and the sound of her breaths. Sherlock had grown _aware_ of her wherever she was. So when he'd caught movement in his periphery as he stood at the now-three-legged desk (propped up by a golf club bad that'd been a misguided thank-you gift from a client. It had only ever carried some rolled maps and a couple of femurs), he'd known it was Molly. Probably because he'd been counting down the minutes to this day with no small amount of dread.

"How are you alive?" she had asked, her voice horrified at the sight of the carnage around them.

Carefully shuffling the papers, he'd offered a bland smile. "Not entirely sure, to be honest."

Molly wrapped her arms tightly around herself, moving further into the room. "Mrs. Hudson is visiting her sister in Florida?"

He nodded. "Hopefully she doesn't find her way into another drug cartel while she's there."

"She'd be the one running it, this time."

He couldn't disagree.

The heavy silence had lingered around them. Sherlock realized he'd ordered and reordered the papers approximately five times since Molly entered the room. So he decided to rip the leave-taking off like a bandage. He would turn to her, offer her a smile and wish her luck, and it'd be done.

Before he'd had the chance, though, Molly had asked, "Would you like to go walk around Regents for a bit?

His prior plans gone, he'd nodded wordlessly, grabbed his coat, and followed her out into the misty morning. There were very few pedestrians about, most likely choosing to while away the morning hours indoors, in fruitless hope of a warmer afternoon.

They walked in silence for some time, before Molly offered, "I went to see Rosie and John last night. You were at Sherrinford."

He'd licked his lips, acknowledging a stab of guilt and—was it resentment?—that he hadn't been the one to tell her about his sister. Eurus had driven the proverbial nail into an all-too-real coffin and had torn Molly away from him. He wished he could have explained what happened. Yes, in to make her understand why he'd done what he'd done, but also, he wanted to tell Molly about his sister so she would know about his life. So she could offer him support and reassurance.

What was worse, he couldn't even blame whomever it was that told her. They likely had done it on his behalf, perhaps trying to talk her into staying. But her mind had been made up before 15 days ago, and the events at Sherrinford had only tipped the scale into full realization.

"I'd offer to introduce you to Eurus, but I don't know if I could even get you into the facility."

She'd smiled at him, a genuine smile for the first time in… he couldn't even recall, which made him ache all the more. Molly had reached forward then, taking his hand, skin now splotchy and red in the cold air.

"You can tell me about her," she offered.

He opened his mouth to try, but he realized that this would be a one-time thing. And he couldn't bring himself to unload a lifetime of awful truths onto her just as she was trying to pack up her life to escape hi.

So instead, he had done something stupid.

He'd drawn her in and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, bending to press his face to the crown of her head.

She'd returned the embrace immediately, holding tightly to him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

He thought she may have whispered back, "I forgive you," but perhaps that was just his rasping breaths.

The embrace didn't end for some time. Sherlock kept his face buried in her hair, not wanting the world to intrude on them. Eventually, though, Molly stirred in his arms and moved. Not away from him, but enough to tilt her head back so she could see him.

His nose brushed her temple as she moved. Without pausing to figure out if it was a good idea, he leaned in to do it again. He could feel her hot breath glancing off of the small sliver of skin exposed between his scarf and his jaw, could feel how it caught when he nuzzled her face. So he did it again. And again. And again.

Slowly, he had pulled back enough to meet her startled eyes. Mouth parted, Molly had stared back. She'd remained perfectly still while Sherlock's eyes had darted to her mouth, to her eyes, back to her mouth.

Glancing back up, he could not decipher the meaning of her expression. She'd still not moved. Her arms were still around him and her mouth was so close to his. It would be so easy to lean in and press—

As his face titled towards hers, Molly's eyes had filled with tears. She had jerked fully away from him, the cold hitting his front where she'd been. His arms had lowered slowly to his sides as he waited—what, for her to slap him? To scream at him? Or worse, walk away without a word?

But she'd only swiped angrily the tears that continued to stream down her face.

"Oh, Sherlock," she'd whispered brokenly, wringing her hands while he watched her, bereft. And then she'd straightened and drawn in a fortifying gulp of air. "I have to _leave_."

He knew she wasn't just meaning the park. Not even London, for that matter. She'd meant she had to leave him.

It seemed all he could was misstep, where she was concerned. He'd nearly kissed her, but instead of it being something earth-jolting, he'd only made her cry, yet again. Why?

As he looked at her, he realized. Had she thought he was manipulating her? Trying to seduce her into staying

"I wasn't—"

"I have to leave," she'd repeated, not letting him speak. She shook her head and managed a watery smile. "I'll miss you," she had choked out as she darted forward, kissed him on the cheek, and hurried off in the rain.

* * *

 _May, 2016_

* * *

Mycroft asks after her one night while Sherlock visits him at his office.

Sherlock's head snaps around from where he's been studying a new ceramic figurine on the bookshelf. "You don't _know_?" he demands, appalled.

His brother sniffs. "I know she is safe and working a regular, non-shift job. I can tell you that her regular hours have contributed to less caffeine intake and money spent some ridiculous under-eye cream that is marketed to 'eliminate dark circles.'"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "For a moment, I thought you'd lost your unsettling touch."

"Yes, well," Mycroft continues, ignoring Sherlock's jibe. "I know Molly Hooper is physically healthy, monetarily comfortable, and safe. But I didn't ask that. I was asking something I can't glean from surveillance."

Sherlock fiddles with the figurine. "I don't know."

It's Mycroft's turn to stare, askance, at his sibling. "You've not thought to ask that in the course of your conversations?" Sherlock's grimace is telling. "You've not _spoken_ to her since she left, have you?"

A single, angry shake of the head is all he receives in response.

Mycroft's sigh eloquently offers his opinion on this. His unsympathetic eyes follow Sherlock as he moves back to sit in the chair in front of the desk.

"Tell me, brother, when did you last speak with Doctor Hooper?" Mycroft asks.

"The day she left. I asked her to tell me that she'd arrive safely in Edinburgh."

"Oh for the love of—why on Earth haven't you rung her up or gone to visit?"

Shifting uncomfortable in his seat, Sherlock pulls out his mobile and pretends to check his email.

"Well?" Mycroft prompts.

"Because she doesn't want me to," Sherlock admits. "I'm merely complying with her wishes."

"Did she say that? Or is that what you've decided?"

"I'd say moving to Scotland is a pretty good indicator of how close she wants to be to me right now." Sherlock pulls up John's blog, nose curling in distaste at the latest entry.

Mycroft frowns in confusion. "But she's in _love_ with you. Doesn't that make her want to be around you all the time, 'til death do you part, and so on?"

Sherlock has stopped reading the words on the mobile's screen, but he continues to stare at the meaningless symbols. "Not when she's doing her level best not to."

His older brother continues to work through clear bafflement. "Why is she trying not to love you?"

"I could have sworn that you and I have been acquainted for some thirty-nine years now," Sherlock snipes. "I'd think that was obvious."

"I don't follow your point. Which is hardly new, but..."

Sherlock scowls. "Why would she _want_ to love me?"

Offering a shrug, Mycroft considers Sherlock. "We all have our idiosyncrasies. Molly Hooper's include a fondness for dead people, dystopian novels, taxidermy, marmite, and you."

"You're forgetting Magner's. She loves the stuff."

Mycroft ignores him. "You haven't explained why she's trying to replace you with a penchant for haggis or something even more ghastly." He frowns, pulls out his mobile, and types something on its screen. Likely a text to Molly's security detail, telling them to do whatever's necessary to keep her out of any bagpipe shops.

Sherlock has kept tight-lipped about his emotional fallout from the events six months earlier. John drops hints occasionally about Molly and/or the "surprising romance of the north country", but Sherlock habitually replies with comments about the consistency of Rosie's latest nappy.

Deflection aside, the good Doctor Watson's worrying line of questions has only encouraged Sherlock to behave as nonchalantly as possible. Everyday, he reminds himself that anything else would be bad for Molly.

But something about his shifting dynamic with his brother encourages him to tell the truth.

"I can't make her happy, Mycroft. You saw what Eurus did to us."

"She was relatively happy prior the that. What changed?"

A flush creeps up Sherlock's neck. He's treading in dangerous waters where his brother is concerned.

Still, he remains honest. "She thinks I'm not in love with her."

As he predicted he would, Mycroft straightens in his desk chair. "She _thinks_?"  
Sherlock has no defense (and more importantly, no lies), so he stares at a leather blotter.

"Sherlock, are you in love with Molly Hooper?" Calming once more, Mycroft keeps his tone casual, unconcerned.

Lips curling in a sneer, he mutters, "Oh, let me tell you all of my feelings. And then we can look at videos of cute celebrities holding kittens on YouTube and tell ghost stories once Mummy and Daddy have gone to bed."

"Are there many videos of celebrities holding kittens on YouTube?" Mycroft asks, curious. But he allows himself to be brought back to the matter at hand when Sherlock curses. "Allow me to make sure I understand this. Molly Hooper loves you."

"You were there. Or she _did_ , rather."

"And you love her."

Sherlock works his jaw. Ultimately, he doesn't lie. For the life of him, though, he can't say why. "Yes."

Mycroft's face is impassive. "But she doesn't know it?"

"Obviously."

"No," Mycroft says, "not ' _obviously'_. You did say the words twice, after all."

"Yes, well, somehow, demanding that I say it and then finding out the whole thing had been done to save her life didn't do much to make her trust the honesty of it all."

Mycroft reclines back into his chair, steepling his fingers in thought. "So, she moved to Edinburgh to escape your thrall."

"I'm not a vampire, Mycroft," Sherlock hisses.

His brother rocks his head back and forth in consideration. "A case could be made."

When Sherlock huffs and begins to rise, Mycroft _tsk_ s at him. "Oh, calm down."

Glaring, Sherlock sinks back into his seat, but he continues to scowl at the swamp of pain, embarrassment, and frustration this conversation is bringing down on him.

Watching him, Mycroft continues. "I'm simply asking _why_ you let her go?"

Sherlock lets out an inelegant snort. "You mean besides the fact that I'd have lost all access to St. Barts if I ever tried to tell Molly she could or could not do something?"

"Quite so."

"I 'let' her go because she needs to move on."

"Why?" Mycroft presses.

"Because I'd be a miserable… _whatever_ to her."

"Boyfriend?" Mycroft offers with a saccharine smile. But his face sobers just as quickly. "It could be argued that I also learned a lesson from the Eurus incident."

"What's that?"

"Sentiment will kill us, whether we let it or not."

"Oh, that's heartening," Sherlock mutters.

"Indeed," Mycroft preens, as if paid a real compliment. But he continues, "So why, little brother, not let it kill us pleasantly, if given the choice?"

A strange spark, a clanging gong, a synapse firing startles Sherlock, but, still, he argues. "You know I've considered it and decided it's too risky. Look what could have happened if Eurus really had planted explosives in Molly's flat."

"Oh, you mean the danger Molly was in before you'd ever acknowledged your feelings for her?"

Sherlock sighs. "Yes."

Mycroft spreads his hands, showing his cards. "So, she's damned if you do her, damned if you don't." He must realize his uncharacteristically bawdy joke (for him, at least) has alarmed his brother for the wrong, shallow reason, because he adds, "Up until Eurus began spying on you, Molly had an advantage: no one knew what the two of you mean to each other.

"And now—" Sherlock cuts in, only to be bowled over once more by Mycroft.

" _And now,_ the only person who knows differently is our catatonic sister.

"So why risk changing that? She'll hardly be the last person I send into a murderous rage."

"I've considerably stepped up Molly's security. And that was before I understood the depth of your feelings for her."

"So, what, she has to be sequestered and insulated by my scary big brother in order for me to get a leg over?"

"I'm saying she chose you. Are you saying she's not smart enough to know the risks?" Sherlock shakes his head, though he doesn't look convinced. Mycroft continues, "I'm saying she's already important to you, and your wallowing make me doubt that will change any time soon. So, isn't shutting her out tantamount to, ah, closing the barn door after the horse?"

The ridiculousness of the situation strikes Sherlock all at once. He squints. "Mycroft, are you actually telling me to _woo_ Molly Hooper?"

Instead of answering him, Mycroft lifts the phone from the cradle. Sherlock's heart starts thudding in his chest as his brother speaks into the receiver. "Anthony, would you please secure a sleeper train car up to Edinburgh for Sherlock Holmes? Yes, tonight." He snaps his fingers at Sherlock, pointing to a notepad just out of reach. Dumbly, Sherlock hands them to him. "11:45 at Euston. Yes, that will be all. Thank you."

If he weren't so _damn_ tired of it all, Sherlock would argue. But instead, he stands and pulls on his coat. As he walks to the door, Mycroft calls out sweetly, "Tell your Lady Love I say 'hello.'"

Rather than replying in words, Sherlock makes a rude gesture before exiting the office.

Still, he goes to the train station.

* * *

New jobs tax even the most stalwart employees. That said, Molly doesn't think her ego can take all the blame when she thinks this one has been particularly taxing. Something about the change being an impulsive one that required her to move away from her home and all of her loved ones has made it all a bit of more of a beast.

Perhaps if leaving had been a cure-all to the heartache, she'd feel more adjusted. Not that she's necessarily unhappy (though she wouldn't call herself _happy_ , either), but the newness of it all has only diminished slightly since her arrival at the Uni's Forensic Pathology Section. She keeps a busy work schedule, goes to quiz nights with some colleagues and graduate students once a week, and drives up into the Highlands on the weekends. She's even thinking about adopting a cat or dog. So she's not as lonely, but that doesn't mean she doesn't miss… well, everything.

Routine helps, but for the first three weeks, she nearly packed it all in. She would leave the cold, unfamiliar bioquarter of the University and travel to her cold, unfamiliar flat. She'd stand in the doorway, looking at unpacked boxes and naked bulbs, and all she could think of doing was turning back to her car and driving to London. She would take long baths and imagine how she could accomplish it all under the radar. She would rent a flat and work in some, nameless hospital. She'd equivocate with herself that it wasn't like she was considering going back for _someone_. She'd not fold on that, but maybe she'd made a mistake in trying to get a fresh start.

A churlish, hurt part of her had wondered why she'd not simply told Sherlock to stop coming round her home and her work. Why had she been the one to uproot her whole life get away from him?

But she'd been fixated on that warm, bubbly feeling she'd get whenever she saw him. The way her heart would jerk whenever he'd slither into her bed late and night, at least once a week. They way she'd have to bury her smile in her pillow while he absently stroked her arm and complained that, "Mrs. Hudson's mustachioed lover is back again and his laryngitis has cleared up," or, "Do you really have to live in Clerkenwell, Molly? You should move closer to Baker Street. It would save me a lot of taxi fare."

The way he would say name and the way he would kiss her cheek.

Because that was the hardest part. For a self-proclaimed misanthrope, he'd certainly been tactile with her. The way he valued her opinion and considered _her_ brilliant was just as seductive. And she'd let it fill her daydreams with that saddest feeling of hope.

So, really, her fantasies of secretly returning had been just that: fantasies. She would heal up here in Scotland, and maybe, given some time, she could see Sherlock and offer him a friendly smile without a single entertainment of the lie she told herself, that he was her _almost_.

Now, several months behind her, Molly isn't as raw or wounded. She's healing and, though she misses everyone, she thinks she made the right, if lonelier choice. She's not even lying anymore when she says she's glad for it.

Of course, on flip side of that coin is the painful realization that she _will_ accomplish her goal. She _will_ fall out of love with Sherlock. She's not near there, yet, but she knows it will happen. And it is every bit as sharp a bereavement. Because she's loved the man for eight, bloody years. She's loathed and liked loving him in equal measure, and her desire to get away from the hurt and happiness he wreaks is a bittersweet one.

But she doesn't let that sway her anymore.

* * *

Coming in early doesn't usually bother Molly. She regularly works ten to twelve-hour days and thinks nothing of it, but she'd mistakenly turned off her alarm on her phone that morning and had only woken up again five minutes before she would need to leave her flat to get to work on time.

Still, she manages to make it in only five minutes late. She dumps her bag on a counter and staggers over to the small break area off of the morgue. Slugging back some of weak swill that they call laughingly call coffee, she studies her schedule for the day and idly thinks about the roast she'd optimistically planned to make that night, and wonders if her Ready Brek can be fancied up, instead.

The morgue door opens quietly and she calls over her shoulder, "Deliveries should be cleared through reception and brought round to the bay doors off the back carpark."

"I still think you should use the Royal Mail," replies an all-too-familiar voice. "More dependability."

Molly freezes, but doesn't turn around. Instead, she stares at her schedule on the computer monitor and tries for a breezy reply. "Same story as before. They don't sell parcel boxes big enough for your standard corpse."

The silence that follows has an echo of its own, and she whirls around, thinking she must have imagined him.

Sherlock Holmes stands only a few feet inside the morgue entrance, staring at her with an inscrutable expression. Funny, how she thought that he'd look different. As if years stretch between them instead of twenty or so feet. But his face is no older or younger than when she last saw it. His hair sits in its customary dark corona of curls. He wears his usual, impeccably tailored suit and his dark Belstaff is as crisp and lint-free as ever. She has to bite down on an hysterical laugh as she thinks about the duplicate coat hanging on the hook next to her new flat's front door. As if he'd come by to claim it any day.

His eyes are wide as he studies her, his gaze sweeping from her head to foot and back again. Normally, she'd squirm under his scrutiny, but she can't get her footing.

"Hello, Sherlock," she whispers, for lack of anything better to say. In the past, she's complained to her corpses that the acoustics in this morgue leave something to be desired, but he hears her.

His lips curl in a small, hesitant smile. "Hello, Molly."

And then they stand there in silence for at least a full minute. It would be painful if she wasn't so discombobulated. She shifts from foot to foot, casting about for a reason that he could have come up here.

"How are you?" he asks, surprising her.

"I'm well. How are you?"

He scratches his jaw with his thumb and offers her a rueful smirk. "So polite."

A flare of annoyance sparks, but she tamps it down. "What did you expect."

"For you to tell me to fuck off."

She is about to vehemently deny it, but a tiny voice suggests that, if he'd caught her when she was more awake, she might have been startled enough to instruct him to do just that.

Shoving his hands in his pocket, he doesn't wait for her to respond. "Mycroft asked after you."

"Really?" she asks, surprised. "He doesn't just _know_?"

"He says you aren't buying as much lotion as before."

Her nose scrunches in distaste. "I've never wanted a stalker."

"If I had a penny for every time I've said that," he agrees as he finally moves further into the room, his normal, quick gate somewhat protracted.

Pulling in a bracing breath, Molly does a quick, self-inventory. She's not crying. She's not hyperventilating. Her ears aren't ringing. She sort of (or really, but who really can accurately measure the strength of their impulses?) wants to touch Sherlock, but she almost worries he'll pop like a bubble. He's still not entirely real to her.

While he comes to a stop a couple of feet away, he continues to study her. "You're happy, though?"

She tries for a casual shrug. "I'm okay. Busy, but settling in."

"And you're eating and sleeping?"

She laughs nervously. "Wow. Mycroft is uncharacteristically concerned for my well-being."

His eyes narrow. "Quite."

She wonders if she'll either cry or get angry soon. Probably both because _of_ course she's an angry crier. It's the worst. "You can tell him I'm getting in 10,000 steps a day, I'm eating all my vegetables, I've gained three pounds, my sleep schedule is dependable, and my sexual health appears to be in good order."

"There's no need for sarcasm," he instructs, shoulders twitching in discomfort.

"Just being thorough."

He scoffs as he moves around her, stopping at the computer. He starts idly clicking through the open files.

"Make yourself at home," she mutters.

"I will, thanks. I see you have a post-mortem that you're due to start now. Shouldn't you be scrubbing in?"

Though she hates that he's right, Molly moves over to the bay of sinks further down the wall, forcefully yanking off the jumper she'd thrown on over her scrubs, leaving it in a heap on the counter. She stomps down on the sink's foot pedal perhaps a bit harder than she intended, only realizing when it squeals and the whole sink judders. Easing off of it a little, she breathes in and out slowly, calming the hurt, baffled anger that's licking at her.

While she waits for the water to heat up, she stuffs her hair up into a surgical cap. Movement out of the corner of her eye has her turning sharply to look at Sherlock. He's folded her jumper and has neatly placed his coat and blazer on top of it. Without breaking her gaze, he pops the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt, methodically rolling up his sleeves, revealing his sinewy arms.

She shivers, wondering why her brain has to torture her, why she has to imagine that the look he's shooting her is almost _smoldering_. He's about to watch her cut open a body, not undress her, for Christ's sake.

Turning back to the sink resolutely, she attacks her hands with a pre-op scrub brush, letting the familiar smell of iodine get her back on track. When Sherlock sidles up alongside her and tears open another E-Z Scrub, she rolls her eyes.

"You don't have clearance at this hospital, Sherlock. You shouldn't even be in here right now."

"And you're doing a bang-up job enforcing that, Molly. Have you thought about finding a post as a security guard in your spare time?"

He quails ever so slightly when she levels him with a glare. Not enough to stop scrubbing his hands, but enough to cough out a, "Sorry."

Rolling her eyes, Molly extracts two surgical gowns. The hospital only buys large ones that dwarf her, so she'll have to try not to trip as she wades around in the thing, while also contending with Sherlock's unsettling presence. But maybe she can ball it up and chuck it at his head when this is over.

It's while she's wrestling into a pair of gloves, hands brushing her side nearly startle a shriek out of her. She looks sharply at Sherlock, but he just arches an eyebrow and continues to knot the ties of her gown. Goosebumps break out across her shoulders as he repeats the move on the strings at her neck. Turning so his profile is to her, he waits expectantly for her to do the same for him. It's nothing new. They've acted as each other's scrub nurse countless times, but, well. Ludicrously, she wants to throw a tantrum. It's been so nice pretending he isn't stirring up every bit of turmoil she's managed to quash over the last, painful six months.

Digging her teeth into her lower lip, she reaches out and hurriedly secures his gown, cursing her ridiculous timidity. But she congratulates herself for not sniffing him or doing something else equally gauche.

He helps her with her prep and rolling the body onto the transfer cart, managing to school his expression to one of only _mild_ eagerness. Despite her anger, Molly's lips twitch at the familiar sight. It relaxes her enough to get started.

Sherlock keeps out of her way for the most part. He stands to the side and observes her work, only stepping in to help reposition Mr. Antrim's limbs and torso when necessary.

In thanks to Sherlock for not making derisive noises or swotty remarks, she even turns off the recorder between steps, asking him if he has any observations to make. The way his eyes crinkle the first time she asks alarms her. She's fairly certain he's _beaming_ with pleasure behind his surgical mask.

It's unsettling.

But she listens to his deductions, offers counterarguments when she disagrees, and she comes to the upsetting conclusion that they still work extremely well together. She knows she should be unsurprised, but it makes it harder to stick to her plan of distance and healing.

He stays with her for the rest of the day, assisting her while she works through her "queue 'o' corpses", as she likes to call it. In fact, she might even describe some of his masked expressions when she makes _hilarious_ death jokes as 'fond'.

Those glances are easier to catalogue, define, and dismiss than the steady way his eyes follow her the rest of the time.

* * *

They walk out of the morgue and into the chill night air together. Awkwardly, Molly shifts on her feet, unsure of what she's supposed to do.

Fortunately, Sherlock grabs her wrist and herds her down the street without any show of hesitation. "I trust that there's a restaurant nearby."

Cautiously, Molly nudges him to turn forty-five degrees. "I really like the one down this lane." She's positive that she's being really stupid right now. She's going to wake up tomorrow as bereft as the day she left London and Sherlock will be none the wiser.

Still, she introduces him to her favorite chippy, knowing it will doubtlessly delight him, since it contains one of his two, great passions: fried food.

They sit and eat their hot fish and Sherlock tells her about Rosie with mix of pride, disgust, love, and bewilderment. She's relieved to hear he's forgotten most of his planned infant experiments, and mostly spends his one-on-one time with her reading or spamming John with pictures of the baby wearing lab goggles and crawling toward lit Bunsen burners.

Molly cackles at that, nearly choking on a bite of fish, but Sherlock looks so pleased with himself, she hardly notices the breading that'll likely be stuck in her windpipe forever.

All too soon, though, they're done eating and he walks her toward her flat. She'd driven in to work today, and she will be sad tomorrow when she has to walk in the early morning cold. But then, she'll be sad for far more significant reasons, so perhaps a bracing stroll will defer some of it. She's unsurprised that he knows exactly where her flat is. She'd be shocked if he'd had no clue, even though she also knows he's not set foot north of Cambridgeshire in years.

They grow quieter as they approach her building. She can see her front door and it makes her throat tighten. She crosses her arms tightly in front of her in a protective gesture once they reach it.

She decides to ask him again.

"Why are you here, Sherlock?" She stares at her trainers, unable to meet his eyes. Afraid of what she'll see there.

He doesn't respond immediately, and it's almost torture. It _will_ be torture if he doesn't have a good reason for coming up here.

"I told you, Mycroft asked how you were. He wanted to get a better read on your welfare."

She snorts. "I didn't believe that ten hours ago and that's not changed now. Your brother can find out anything he wants without a singe, personal interaction."

Sherlock's shoulders lift in a shrug. "Actually, he might disagree with you on that"

"Oh?"

"You've not had the pleasure of meeting Eurus. She's catatonic now, but she certainly made her mark on all of us, Mycroft included."

The blatant mention of the events six months ago sends a sharp jolt through her. Not out of upset for herself, because she's realized that the only person who'd meant to hurt her is once again imprisoned at Sherrinford. It was out of character for her, but she'd spent weeks after the incident failing to think much beyond her own broken heart and Sherlock's pain.

"Is he okay?" Molly asks softly.

She's certain she didn't imagine the unguarded, lost expression that flits across Sherlock's face. Just as she's certain that it's equal parts worry for his brother and gratitude that someone else is concerned.

"He… He'll be fine, eventually. It may be naively optimistic of me to say it, but Mycroft might even be the silver lining to the chaos our sister brought about." He shakes his head, changing the subject. "But you're right. I didn't come up here because Mycroft asked me."

"Color me amazed," she says, trying for a dry tone and failing miserably.

Sherlock wets his lips, uncertainty rife in his posture. Eventually, though, he comes to some sort of decision. Turning to meet her gaze fully, he whispers, "Are you happy, Molly?"

Contrary to popular belief, it once wasn't such a rare thing for Sherlock to ask—genuinely—after her. But this question comes out raw, strained.

Giving him an honest answer is harder than she would have previously thought. "I—I'm not sure," she says in a rush. "I _think_ I am, but it's all so different from London." She fiddles with the strap of her bag. "I'm not as misfit here. But I don't think I have a baseline to go by."

Her brow furrows when she catches the dejected tilt of his mouth.

"I'm glad," he tells her, finally. "I _am_ glad," he repeats.

"Are you sure?" she says, only half joking.

He strides out of the lighted area of her front door and then paces back. "You never let me apologize for what happened that day," he blurts.

"Sherlock—"

"No," he interrupts, "please."

This will hurt all over again. But, then, it would hurt if she'd had years to heal or if no time had passed since their phone conversation that pushed her out of London. His obvious distress is a harsh reminder that, again, he's hurting, too. So she digs her short nails into her palms, a means to ground herself, and she nods.

"I know that Greg Lestrade explained to you what happened with Eurus."

Molly nods, to confirm and to signal him to continue.

"She was going to kill you."

"I know." It doesn't matter that it ultimately was a manipulation. It had been real for him at the time.

He breaks their eye contact, focusing on a random spot over her shoulder. He doesn't stop speaking, though. "She gave me three minutes to save you and I couldn't do a thing but play her game. I couldn't scream at you to run away. I couldn't find a way to get you to understand.

"And she got exactly what she wanted. She made you reveal a part of yourself that you had tried to keep safe from me, and she made me realize—"

Molly interrupts. "It wasn't a matter of safety."

"Wasn't it?" he asks. "You thought I was making fun of you. And it's no surprise. Everything you think me capable of is my own doing."

She's already shaking her head before he can finish. "Seven years ago, you were an utter arse and you might have been callous enough to ask it from me with no hesitation." He flinches at the reminder. "I couldn't think why you could possibly need me say it, so I let myself use old evidence as a self-defense."

"Either way, I hurt you."

"To save my life. It wasn't some bored game. And sometimes, Sherlock, you can do everything exactly right and a person will get hurt by that, too. ."

"But I don't think you even understand what I'm trying to say." His voice is hollow. "I still can't figure out how my sister knew exactly what would damage us the most."

"Jim Moriarty."

Sherlock flicks the suggestion away. "That doesn't work. He wouldn't have overlooked you like he did. He thought he succeeded before he died."

Impossibly sad, Molly lifts her hands helplessly. "I've always worn my heart on my sleeve. It couldn't have been too hard."

"It _does_ matter. You're up here in Scotland instead of home. I drove you up here because you think—"

"I drove myself up here. My car's at Royal Hospital." His lip curls, unamused by the stupid joke. Dropping her head back, she links her fingers at the nape of her neck. "Sherlock, I told you that it was a culmination of things that brought me up here. Eurus maybe tipped the scales, but a lot happened last year. My friend died and John all but abandoned their baby with me for over a _month._ I would take her again in a heartbeat, but god, how could he do that to Rosie? Then he snapped out of it, just in time for me to burn out with my work and research. I was distraught by how you handled the Culverton case. And I needed to see if there were other things to consider. Yeah, I was embarrassed and sad, too, but give me a little credit."

He shakes his head in frustration. "I would give you all the credit in the world. It's me that's…" But he's unable to articulate what he is. Eventually, his shoulders slump and he shakes his head infinitesimally, giving up what was turning into a circular argument. "I'm no good at this," he mutters.

"No good at what?" She frowns in confusion.

He gestures to her. "I'm no good at _you. For_ you."

Molly can't fight an unmoored, drifting feeling that tugs at her while she stares at Sherlock's resigned face.

At a loss, she says, "Sherlock, we're here talking. I can face you still. I can work with you still. You still make me happy because you're one of my best friends. So Eurus didn't rob me of anything."

"She robbed me of you," he whispers.

It all hurts too much and she barely manages to say, "She really didn't." Unsure of what else she can do, Molly takes his hand, strokes the back of it with her thumb.

He lets his face clear and he tries for smile. "It's late and you have to be up early. Go to sleep, Molly."

"You're not staying here?" she asks in a rush.

"I'm on the 11:45 PM train. I'm going to head towards the station."

"Oh," she says. Of course it was coming, but she had let herself get used to him being here. What else is new?

She's still lost in this strange atmosphere buzzing about Sherlock. She can't identify what it is that has her so shaken, but she worries it's that fucking hope, rearing its ugly head, gnawing at her belly again. Whispering, _Look how he wants to be around you. Look how you love him. Maybe this time…._

As if he's read her unhappy thoughts, he pulls her into a hug, kissing her forehead. "I'm glad you're happy here, Molly," he murmurs against her skin

Her strength today has surprised her, pleased her, even. She's not cried yet. But she worries she might start soon. Crying because he came here to make sure he'd not hurt her beyond repair, that he only wants that for her. She knows she's being melodramatic, but she doesn't understand it. Why did he need to suss out her emotional state in quite so invasive, bittersweet a way?

Sherlock tilts her chin up and smiles, pressing a quick, dry kiss to her startled lips before he gives her a gentle nudge to her door.

"I'll come see you next week." He promises it so easily because he can't understand he's levying a tax on her. Instead of waiting for a reply, he moves out onto the pavement. "Try to eat more than just crisps," he calls as he walks back towards her old life, minus her.

"Goodbye," she whispers, but she doesn't think he hears her. Somehow, she fumbles her lock open and steps inside.

Safely ensconced in her flat, she leans back against her door, groping for the deadbolt so she doesn't do something foolish like run out after him. Her breath heaves, shuddering. She is about to start crying, she realizes. So she claps a hand to her eyes, pressing in. The pressure holds the tears at bay while she tries to talk herself round.

 _Steady on, Molly,_ she thinks to herself, as if that will do something. So she focusses on breathing slowly in through her nose, out through her mouth. Again and again, and she is so wrapped up her thoughts, she nearly tunes out the sound of someone knocking.

If she hadn't just walked into the flat five minutes ago, she could have maybe feigned sleep or absence and ignored the door. As it is, she drags her weight off it and takes several, slow, even breaths before she gathers the energy to open it to the person on the other side.

Sherlock stands there, out of breath, as if he'd run back to her door.

"Sherlock?"

"I lied." His cheeks are red from exertion and cold, while his hair sits in disarray, like he's been dragging agitated fingers through it again and again.

Confused, Molly frowns. "Lied about what? Mycroft asking you to check in on me? We already discussed that."

"No," he shakes his head sharply. "Well, not entirely. I didn't come up here to make sure you're happy."

Off kilter, she goes for a sarcastic reply. "How nice. I'm glad you could come all the way back to tell me—"

This time, Sherlock cuts her off by pushing her back against the doorframe and kissing her roughly.

She squeaks, a soft, muffled sound lost in his mouth. Her hands find desperate purchase on the side seams of his coat while she vaguely thinks she should be demanding an explanation from him, not letting him haul her inside and use the weight of their bodies to push the door closed.

But she _does_ let him and her confusion is fleeting. Not because she has a bloody idea what's going on, but because Sherlock's hands are running up and down her sides even as they push her against the door, his body is pressing against hers so perfectly, and the slide of their tongues is making it hard to think.

He breaks away, but just for a moment, just to whisper, "Molly," and then he returns his lips to hers.

Everything loses focus around her. It's not unlike the sensation of water in the ears. Everything but their harsh breaths and the slight rasp of Sherlock's fingers against the skin of her neck is muffled, distant. But every other sense becomes that much more acute. Her hands tingle with it, with this strange power that has overtaken her.

One of the first lessons from a long-ago physics class flits briefly through her mind. The law of conservation of energy states that energy is neither created nor destroyed. She'll likely roll her eyes at her whimsy later, but right now, she swears she's seen no better example. Sherlock shivers against her when she brushes her fingers over the shell of his ear and it causes a reciprocal reaction in her. In tandem, their kisses grow even more desperate, their hold on each other tightens.

When he wedges a thigh between hers, pulling her hips against his, her hands flex in surprise. Her convulsing fingers scratch lightly at the nape of his neck and, fascinatingly, he _growls_. So Molly has no choice but to try it again. She dips questing fingers under the collar of his shirt and lightly scrapes her blunt, practical nails on the skin of his upper back.

His response is no less gratifying the second time. Eager to drag her nails over all of his skin, she trips her fingertips back over the fine silk of his is blue shirt, heading to spring loose its buttons. She pauses, though, after unfastening only one. Returning her hands to his waist, she pushes at him until they turn 180 degrees, so his back is now to the door

Molly breaks their kiss at last, only to press her lips to skin she's just exposed.

It's Sherlock's head falling back and thudding against the door that jars her out of the heat. She drops her arms away from him, trying to catch some deep breaths and still her racing pulse. When he realizes that she's pulling away, the umbrage of it all darkens the already-considerable flush in his cheeks.

"What." He doesn't even pose it as a question.

She swallows, unsure if she really can ask what she needs to. _Be kind to yourself,_ she thinks. She _needs_ answers.

Sherlock's arms remain banded around her, his hips flush with hers so she can feel his erection pressing insistently against her belly. His hooded eyes stare her down, haughtily questioning her sanity.

She wonders how they aren't already naked and fucking against the door.

She isn't sure she's ever been as reluctant to do something as she is now, while she draws away fully from him. Except for when she did so emotionally, of course, and ended up in Scotland as a result.

The reminder strengthens her resolve.

He doesn't straighten away from the door immediately, but his expression turns considering as he scans her face. "What is it, Molly?"

The nerves threaten to swamp her. But she knows she'll only be more confused if they don't talk this through. "Why'd you come back, Sherlock?"

It offends him and she can't figure out why. "I believe we've had this conversation three times now."

"You never said what you lied about. You just grabbed me and we snogged for fifteen minutes." He looks like he's about to object, so she continues, "I'm not going to infer and make an idiot of myself. Tell me. If you even know what you want to say. Because, so far, you've done a really good job of _not_ saying anything."

"Well, now I'm wondering what you could possibly 'infer' that you'd need to be embarrassed for." She doesn't reply, so he presses, "Molly, what do you think I'm avoiding saying?"

She looks away, refusing to meet his eyes. "I don't know why you're doing this. We're friends. I hope I'm not thinking too much of myself to say you miss me."

"Of course I miss you. But that's not it."

She crosses her arms in front of her, needing the meager protection the pose offers. Her voice betrays the influx of sadness. "Never mind. Can we forget this? We're emotional. I understand how that can—"

"I love you," he interrupts. She draws in a shuddering breath, staring at a nameless point above his shoulder. When she does nothing else, he says it again. "I love you, Molly."

A traitorous tear escapes, dribbling down her cheek. "Are you trying to comfort me right now? Because this is not the way—"

"I love you,"

"Please don't say—"

"Stop," he says sharply. "Why don't want me to say it?"

She closes her eyes, gathering the pieces of herself as best she can. "Because you'd say anything for me," she whispers.

Hurt flashes, but he blinks and his eyes are once again shuttered, hidden. "You think I'm being manipulative?"

"No," she insists, scrubbing at her face, even though more tears replace the ones she's wiped away. "I didn't say 'anything _to_ me,' I said, 'anything _for_ me.' You've been cruel in the past, Sherlock, but I think you're being kind now." Devastatingly kind.

His face drawn, he moves to lean back against the door again, crossing his arms in a similar pose to hers. "So you think I'm saying it for your sake."

"Yes," she says softly.

Silence spans between them and she isn't sure how they can get past this.

"When we talked on the phone," he murmurs after a full minute, "you said you couldn't say the words to me because they were true."

"I've never been able to hide anything from you. I needed one thing for me," she says, slumping to press her forehead to the doorframe.

He nods thoughtfully. "I've always known, intellectually, that you must love me. You would have given up on me years ago if your feelings had been superficial." He reaches out to play with the ends of her hair, fingertips caressing her back occasionally while he thinks through his words. "But it was never something I thought needed to be articulated."

"Right, because it was uncomfortable for you."

"No," he disagrees, "because I knew it. But when you said it was _true_ , I realized just how much I wanted to you to tell me. How much I wanted to _hear_ it coming from you."

"Why?" she asks, eyes still closed, head still bowed to the wood.

He doesn't hesitate. "Because I _want_ you to love me."

The tears fall freely now, but she supposes she should celebrate the small things. It's a small mercy that her nose isn't running and she isn't hiccupping, to boot.

He slides closer to her, so his arm presses again her shoulder. "Loving someone is a vulnerability. So I tried to protect us. You, definitely, but probably myself more. I'm selfish, as has been well documented."

She listens carefully, though she still cannot look at him.

"After you saved my life, I realized on some level how much I want you. But I'm _me_ , so I never would have called it love. I just set out to make sure no one could figure out what you mean to me, so they couldn't use it against me.

"The problem is, I did _too_ good a job. To the point that not only our closest friends couldn't realize how important you are to me, but you couldn't, either.

"Mary knew," she whispers quietly, turning her head so her cheek rests against the door. She's stopped crying, she notes. Registering Sherlock's surprise, she continues, "She kept saying I should show up at your flat naked some night and have my way with you. She insisted you were 'barmy in love' with me."

He rolls his eyes. "Poetic Mary, as usual. By the way, it's annoying you didn't take her advice. You would have had 100% success if you'd tried it."

Molly gives a watery laugh.

"Eurus is leagues smarter that Moriarty. She came to my flat, did you know that?" Off her head shake, he nods. "During the Culverton case. She posed as his daughter."

A shiver arcs up her spine, thinking about it.

"We spent the night wandering through Central London. I babbled about you a handful of times. So she learned what no one else had without even trying. That's how she knew to threaten you."

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I don't think I've said it yet, have I? I'm sorry about your sister, Sherlock. And for what she did to you."

He nods in thanks. "Anyway, my point is, Molly, that she knew what we'd do. And when you told me to say, 'I love you' first, it took a moment for my brain to catch up with my mind. Because I'd partitioned it so well, over months and years. I managed to get the words out like I knew I should. The first time, I was playing the part."

"I was about to say back after you said it once," she admits slowly.

"But then I looked up and I saw you. You were so strong and beautiful and sad and you were everything I've kept at bay. So I had to say it again, because I realized then just how absolutely true it was."

Molly exhales deeply, breath shaky. Oh, how she _wants_ to believe him. As ever, it comes down to the matter of how much she trusts Sherlock. And she comes to the realization that she believes. Absolutely.

So she says it the only way she can right now. "I love you, too."

His smile may be the most beautiful thing she's seen.

Slowly, cautiously, he pulls her back to him, as if he's afraid she might shy and buck. When she only wraps her arms around his waist, he lifts a hand to brush back some wisps of hair and then he cups her face, tilting her head to the side so he can seal his mouth over hers. This time, it's so achingly gentle. But then, this is no surprise, because Sherlock has been so with her before.

She nuzzles her nose against his cheek, feeling his muscles relax and his warm breath sigh across her face.

What else can she do but take his hand and lead him into the warm, dark of her bedroom.

* * *

Later, much later, she lies on her back, staring up at her bedroom ceiling, trying to decide if the finger Sherlock traces across the bottom of her ribcage tickles too much. She's too happy to stop him, though, so she comes to the conclusion that it's not that bad. She turns her head, heavy eyes meeting his. He's lying on his stomach, side pressed against hers. When she tilts her head enough that she can rub the tip of her nose against his, he stops drawing on her skin in favor of flattening his large, warm palm to her sternum.

Eventually, after sleepy, warm kisses and arms tightening around each other once more, he asks, "Will you come back?"

"I'm only a consultant at the University. I don't have to renew my contract."

He dips his head, placing an open-mouthed kiss on her naked shoulder. "If you want. I can come up to you, if you'd like."

She shakes her head, burrowing further into his arms. "Our lives are in London. But it will be six months until my current contract is up."

"There's a lot of Edinburgh I've not seen," he muses. "But you should probably get me clearance at your new morgue and lab."

She laughs and promises to try.

* * *

 _November, 2016_

* * *

 **O** **2** **Mobile**

 **iMessage from Molly Hooper at 15:33**

 _Stopping at services for petrol, about 45 minutes out. Any ideas where a girl can crash until her tenant clears out? – Mxx_

 **O** **2** **Mobile**

 **iMessage from Sherlock Holmes at 15:33**

 _You know where to find me. – SH_

* * *

 _The End_


End file.
